


Andrea in His Studio

by tomorrowlied



Category: None - Fandom
Genre: Adultery, F/M, Love, Renaissance Era, Romance, artist
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-26
Updated: 2018-08-26
Packaged: 2019-07-02 17:24:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,334
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15801177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tomorrowlied/pseuds/tomorrowlied
Summary: Inspired by Robert Browning's 'Andrea Del Sarto'





	Andrea in His Studio

The five walls that surrounded him creaked wretched sounds of failure and misfortune. The pale brown paint of the walls was undried, masking the layers upon layers of lies and half-truths that were told here. Another layer was added whenever his wife saw fit. The ceiling showed its age with cracks dashing from the corners like lightning strikes during winter storms. 

His only solace was the corner beside the window which illuminated the only source of natural light. An easel propped straight up, its back facing the wall and the canvas which sat on it was open to the rest of the studio. Here, wonders were made. He strived for perfection. 

Andrea picked up his timber paint brush and rinsed it in the silver tin beside him full of turpentine. His arm hovered above his palette before reaching for the untouched intense phthalo blue. Like gentle ocean waves upon the hard sand, his hand danced the paint over the clothed canvas. His brush dipped back into the tin and back onto the canvas for the sun-burnt cadmium red with a dash of pristine titanium white. The creaks and moans of the room had ceased and now the only sound that could be heard was the meditative sweeping of the crisp brush on the canvas. 

‘Stay here.’ A woman’s graceful voice came from downstairs. She was finally home. 

Andrea stepped back from the canvas, wiping the paint off his hands and onto his ragged apron. The orb of light that arose from the horizon was high now, enough so that the brown studio became golden and warm and it smelt of blankets that were left to dry in the summer sun. Outside, the birds sung a melody so sweet that it caused the wilted flowers to bloom in full health. Andrea looked back at the canvas. 

She was perfect. 

The Madonna washed with the likeness of his own wife, Lucrezia. He smiled, admiring her beauty and the two younger figures which leaned against each other on the canvas. On her lap sat the young Christ and beside her thigh stood his older brother. Both pure and naked, untainted by the duplicity of the world. Mary, glowing in all her glory wore a scarlet gown and a royal blue shoal. Her devious waist was hugged by a thin rope. The sky behind the trio was coloured of an azure blue descending into a gradient of a light cadmium yellow over the horizon. The land was animated with the bristling of evergreen trees. Perfection resided within these four corners. 

He had done it. 

A knock at the door woke him from his daydream. A saint of a woman appeared behind the door. Her eyes a mystic blue and her face chiselled to perfection as if it was cast from the mould of Mary. Her voluminous shimmering hair hung low off her shoulders and trickled down her sides like a golden river. ‘Lucy, my dear. Come in, come see.’ Andrea’s grin radiated of victory and pride. This was the one, this was the painting that would make him surpass Michel and maybe even Raphael. ‘My darling, I have done it. This one will sell for thousands I am sure. We must take this one to the provenance and it will be sold within the week. Of that I am sure.’ His hand hovered around his wife’s waist guiding her to the window to reveal his latest masterpiece. 

It had her likeness. Of beauty she had seen too often. Her face was one that was painted too many times. Her eyes turned from the newly-finished canvas in front of her to the ones stacked beside the closet. All the same. All bearing her appearance as the Madonna, as Ruth, and as Sarah. All the same. This was not what she came for. 

She turned back to her husband, looking down at his hand and stepping forward intending to persuade the man with her affection before thinking otherwise. ‘Andrea. I require more of you.’ She said. His eyebrows twitched upwards before lowering into a solemn sadness. The room suddenly became dark again. 

‘How much?’ 

‘One hundred would suffice.’ With his eyes trailing along the timber floorboards, he roamed to the cabinet on the opposite wall, his feet dragging behind him. From the middle drawer, he removed a brown sack of coins.

‘Lucy my sweet, what is taking so long?’ A familiar and unwelcomed voice said at the door. The adulterer. Lucrezia smiled at the younger man and swiftly took the money from Andrea’s loose grasp. ‘Thank you, dear.’ She whispered to her husband before hurrying after the younger man, who had left promptly after calling her out. 

‘We could have been,’ Andrea started causing Lucrezia to halt abruptly before she could leave the room. ‘We could have been something else. Had you been more… more…’ 

‘More what? More passive, more affluent, more pliant. I apologise for my rashness, Andrea. But it is you who has wronged me.’ Her words expelled more air. How could a being so graceful say such harsh words? Andrea had done nothing less than care and love and adore her, yet this was how she repaid him. But she was correct; it was not her fault. The only thing he required of her was her faith in him. Her belief that he could be one of the greats. That his work could be commissioned for a nobleman or a royal or the congregation. But he too was to blame. He held her too high. He thought too much of her. She was not his wife, she was a marble sculpture, perfect in all ways, but frail. She required a type of love that he could not give her. 

Had they been more intimate in their affections, she would not have run off with a younger man, and he would be notorious for his work. But they had not been. Intimacy was long lost in this alliance between them that he called love. 

There was a prolonged silence. Lucrezia stood staring at the brown pouch in her hands. ‘A friend’s friend,’ Her voice drew his attention once more, ‘He has commissioned a piece for work. He said he would pay one hundred florins. I assume you will accept the commission.’ He would take the offer. But he would do so bitterly. 

Andrea returned to the window and sat on his stool again, facing the empty easel. With a sigh he placed a new stretched canvas on the stand. He would work, but not for himself. He worked for glory, for a name, for prestige. But now, he was her disciple. 

For her. Always for her. 

There was nothing left for him. Andrea had only sought perfection and when it was acquired, what else was there to gain? He would yield to his love and as usual, expect nothing in return. A gust of wind caused the shutters to slam against the window frames. The sky rumbled like a grey wolf’s growl, an upsetting echo of the crushing of a soul. 

The younger hellish voice from downstairs spoke. ‘Lucy dear, we will arrive late.’ Lucrezia turned slightly, her torso facing the doorway. She spoke gently, with a hint of indigence. ‘Andrea, I must—’ 

‘Go, my love.’ Andrea cut her off mid-sentence before she could remove any more shards of glass from his heart, leaving it to openly bleed. Without hesitation, Lucrezia left. 

The walls of the room closed in and Andrea remained in darkness. Again, he could only hear the creaks of the old studio. He was once more, alone and the silence filled the emptiness of the room. Yet there was a sense of comfort. The singularity of the empty room meant that there was no longer anyone that could harm Andrea. His isolation brought serenity. Looking around his apartment, he saw that the brown walls were a darker shade than before. Yet they were still walls, and even they could still hold up this decaying studio.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks Ms. C


End file.
